Winter Lingers
by Fusion Orchid
Summary: A quick, vaguely naughty Aoshi character study.


A/N: I love Aoshi. This was so fun and easy to write. *world's most pathetic fangirl*

Suggested listening: Saki Kaskas – "Callista," which you'll recognize if you've played either _High Stakes_ or _Mass Effect 2_.

Dedicated to mariamcardoso on LiveJournal for being so nice and for giving me a nice long A/M reading list.

Disclaimer: I do not own any any of the characters used in my fanfiction, nor profit from my work.

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In theory, it was spring.

In practice, winter still held the land in its icy grasp. Snow formed a thick frosting on the rooftops, obscuring much of Kyoto's beautiful architectural detail: curving eaves were piled with white powder, elaborate gables rendered smooth behind a wall of blankness. The narrow streets were deserted in the chilly early evening, even the bravest denizens preferring the warmth inside. No hint of the dead, frozen earth showed under the pale carpet of snow.

The trees, too, were white. This was a different white, however; slightly creamier in color, as though warmed by some hint of late sunlight that the densely clouded gray sky could hardly bear to surrender. Occasional splashes of deep reddish-purple were lurid against the white. The plum trees had put forth their blooms that very day, seemingly all at once, releasing heady fragrance into the delicately biting wind. The dark branches swayed and nodded gently, as though they'd snap from their flowery burden at any moment.

Like the plum blossoms, the shoji caught what little light remained, turning the sturdy paper screens palest golden against the darker wood framework. It was open slightly on one end, letting just enough cold air flow into the room. A tiny mountain ridge of snow had piled onto the tatami at the threshold, bringing the icy scape inside in miniature.

A little steam swirled in the air, but this wasn't a bathhouse. There was water here, perhaps, but no towels, no wooden buckets, no perfumed soap. There was only inky black and glistening pale, stark against the dull brown tatami.

He was utterly exhausted, sapped of his seemingly endless pool of strength. The faint vapor of steam rose from his body, gladly thrown off by spent muscles. It carried the scent of green tea, cinnamon incense, and masculine exertion. His ki was sated like a tiger after a long night's hunt, curling up to slumber restlessly in his heart and belly.

From between folds of fabric, mostly black and a little white, firm flesh gleaming with sweat peeked like the first hint of pearl in a newly opened oyster. The powerful musculature beneath rippled faintly with his slow but labored breathing. Even now he was supremely controlled, forcing deep and even breaths, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The garment was open in a narrow slash almost to the waist; occasional blemishes of scars dappled his skin like constellations on an antique star map, some puckered, some rosy trails, all faded with time. The wide, trailing white sash had coiled around his powerful thighs as he collapsed, echoing the snowy earth outside.

A tall saya leaned against the wall nearby, seemingly forlorn. Long, powerful fingers of one hand were wrapped loosely around the plain hilt of a blade: shorter than a katana, longer than a dagger, utterly familiar in his grasp. Even in his exhaustion, he gripped it securely, as though it comforted him, yet held it away from his body as though it repulsed him. The other kodachi, hilt wrapped in faintly shimmering dark cloth, lay across his lap, its gleaming length easily spanning his narrow hips. Close to the dull edge, a hint of a firm ridge teased the eye, perhaps merely a mirage, from within the loose black folds of his pants.

From the callused fingers idly holding one kodachi, a smooth forearm showed a hint of the tense cords beneath as he inhaled deeply. Further up, the hard muscle of his bicep twitched with the slight motion. Here his clothing was nearly plastered to his body with sweat. Glimmering beads of moisture escaped his lightly furrowed brow, trailing like a sweet summer rain down the fleetingly vulnerable column of his neck, caught for a moment by his Adam's apple before dripping down onto partially exposed collarbones.

His lips were as expressionless as ever, ungiving but sensual in their slight curve. With his open-mouthed breaths, vaguely sharp white teeth gleamed occasionally in the rapidly growing dimness. His cheekbones were sharply defined, almost hollow beneath, kissed twice by the muses of exercise and the chill. Like snow-covered Kyoto sprawling around him, his face was pure, classical Japanese beauty: as a woman he would have been a great courtesan, a geisha, a very expensive prostitute.

Black and faintly shining like a raven's feathers, his hair curled damply against his skin in places, caught against the equally dark arch of his brows and in the long, thick, black fringe of his lashes. His expression was one of intense concentration, a hint of pain, satisfying yet incomplete release all at once. His eyes fluttered open briefly, a flash of electric blue like the light playing along the keen edge of a sword as it was unsheathed.

Outside, the breeze kicked up. A white blossom snapped delicately from its stem, sailing on the sudden current of freedom, past the invitingly open shoji. It landed delicately, lighter than the most hesitant caress, between his brows. He didn't notice, blaming the increased wind for the sudden surge in the rich scent. It tumbled into his hair, clung for a moment, then fell to the tatami, brushing his fingertips and the edge of a kodachi as it drifted.

It wasn't time for spring just yet.


End file.
